Wenn Sternen Schrei
by Anesther
Summary: Hiccup has desired nothing more than to belong. When opportunity arises with the fall of night's demon, he can't bring himself to kill it. Instead, he takes it back home; and realizes what the dragon knew: it would've rather died than leave its throne. AR
1. Legendäre Proof

**AN: Set in an Alternate Universe. Having learned the company is making a third installment to the film and that the television series will be darker and deeper in storyline compared to other spin-off franchises by DreamWorks, I felt like celebrating with an idea that I've been toying with to tie together the books and film. I apologize as well to my HTTYD readers for not having written anything in a long while. Hope this is enjoyable.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own How to Train Your Dragon and the characters within.**

**_When Stars Scream_**

XXX

_Legendary Proof_

The night he had shot the beast down was an event to be documented, celebrated even, though Hiccup knew no one would believe him if he ran into the village screaming he'd shot a Night Fury. Licking his lips nervously, the young lad heads down back to Berk, having narrowly escaped the Monstrous Nightmare from turning him into a meal that night as well. Snack, more likely—he probably wouldn't have been much; not even a decent toothpick.

It's been a few days since then; anxiety swells within him with the rise and fall of the glittering halcyon orb, coyly touching the horizon's sharp edge. Each day is wrought with new apprehension and it fills his thoughts, mind at war: it'll remark how smart he was for not becoming the village idiot again and another part will coldly tell him he was an even bigger fool for not saying anything.

Hiccup continues into the village, picking up a bucket to fill with water from the crude well nearby for the trough the sheep use. Lowering it into the dark depths, he wonders absentmindedly about how similar the black resembled the impeccable shade of sable that had whisked past him in the night, blocking out the iridescent light of hot stars with such brevity he had thought his mind was tricking him, wishing desperately for that one slim chance…

…and he had done it. Should he have told his people that he'd accomplished the most impossible feat? The few times he'd done so were terrible mistakes; the first and second time he had really caught nothing. The third, he'd captured a bird. Since he had broken the wing of the creature and the bird would not have been particularly good game, they bludgeoned its head in with one harsh blow, effectively putting it out of its flightless, hopeless misery.

He had been eleven, his first personal sighting of what a kill was. He had felt horribly ill, watching crimson stain the green blades at his feet, watched pink flesh and soft downy feathers cling to the mace in sticky red globs of goo. He had almost doubled over to wretch right there but he managed to remain standing despite the sight, despite the feeling of guilt that twanged into his heart. No one in the village quite knew how to mend appendages that weren't mammalian but he could have tried to save it—it had been an innocent bystander that was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. It died because he had made a mistake.

Gobber had patted his shoulder, "A downed dragon is a dead dragon; it applies to birds as well, lad."

Stoick had been standing by his son, proud a little that his boy had not fainted from the coiling stench and sight of blood. He ruffled the young boy's deep auburn locks, chuckled sympathetically, "You get used to it." After that, the men left, one villager carrying the remains to feed the Terrors cooped up in their dark pens. After that comment, Hiccup bent over and vomited, not from the event finally having rooted itself into his head, but at the frightening thought that killing would become easier.

How can something so brutal possibly become simpler? How can a life, eventually, mean nothing?

He cannot deny that he felt a strange exhilaration from it. The cloying scent, the red that marred his vision, the quickening beat of his heart in his frail chest—it all made his delirious from fascination. His mind is one of an innovator, an artist, filled to the brim with ideas and processed every sense of the body within its mechanical workings, creating something no one around him could possibly comprehend. Gods, he had been intrigued…

Promptly, he emptied his stomach once more, disgusted, this time, with himself.

Hiccup shakes his head, breaking from the distant past, and heaves the bucket up. Placing it on the edge of the well, he grips the handle and heads to the trough in the sheep pen, pouring it out. They bray and push each other, drinking noisily. Leaning against the fence that holds the animals in, the tips of his fingers skim the soft wool atop one's head. Briefly it breaks from its quest to quench its thirst, nuzzles his palm, and resumes. Hiccup stares at them, murmurs, "You're lucky. You don't have much to deal with—everything is handed to you." Until you die, of course, he adds to himself. Even when he was little, he never lets those words escape his lips; everyone believes the animals don't understand what they're saying but he had this innate desire to keep quiet so they won't attempt to escape. He would be blamed for telling their few sources of food the truth of why they were fed and offered water every day.

"Oh, look, if it isn't our leader's fearless son!"

The obnoxious voice caused Hiccup to cringe, sigh; he refused to look at them.

"Guess he doesn't want to look at you today," says another. He can never tell if that is Ruffnut or not—she speaks so low.

"Well, y'know, Snot's pretty ugly," comments Tuffnut. That voice can be placed easily—not because of the different vocal pattern but the harsh whack of bone upon bone that normally follows every time he opens his mouth to speak.

Hiccup is suddenly grabbed by the shoulder of his fur vest and deftly turned around, staring into the squinty, blue eyes of his cousin. The two boys never address the other as blood relations—Snotlout because he doesn't like the fact a relative of his is so weak it's ludicrous; Hiccup because… that was obvious to even a blind man. But it went further than that—he didn't like his older, brawnier cousin's lack of thought. Vikings were known to be ruthless killers, ending lives first than asking questions, but they were smart when it came to certain aspects of life. Snotlout didn't have the intelligence it appeared to balance it out: all stupid brute force.

But Snotlout was approved by all because he was strong. One can have tactical wit and strength, withal, when it comes down to it, being able to wield a weapon is more desirable in a Viking.

Hiccup does not have that.

"You can't just ignore me, runt," says Snotlout, folding muscular arms over his broad chest.

"I can try and it worked till your face got up in mine," Hiccup remarks, remembering too late that will receive a smack.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut howl and jeer, "Are you gonna let 'im talk to you like that, Snot?"

Snotlout pulls back an arm, about to ram it with full force into the scrawny shoulder blade when a voice barks out for him to knock it off. Hiccup groans quietly as Gobber comes hobbling up to them.

"Why don't the three of you scamper off and make yourselves useful?"

Snotlout snorts, "Just teaching Hiccup here how to fend for himself."

"Of course ye were," replies Gobber, raising a brow. Glancing at the smaller teenager, he nonchalantly questions where he had gone off to earlier.

"Just walking about," says Hiccup, turning back around to look at the moving mass of white in the pen.

"That so?" Gobber states, "From the very time the sun comes out?"

Hiccups nods, glances at the blacksmith, and resumes pretending to be bored; he could tell Gobber, he knows he can. Gobber, though not particularly encouraging or patient, often listens to him when he has something to say. It was worth a shot.

Gobber unknowingly gives him an opening, "Your machine in the shop. It looks like it was recently used,"

"Yeah, um, the night the dragons came. I used it then…"

Snotlout and the twins had not left as Gobber told them to and they laugh. "Ya catch somethin'?"

Normally he remains quiet; normally he lets them trample upon his words till they're dust in his mouth; inside, a part of him snaps, and he whirls on them, "As a matter of fact I did catch something that."

This causes the four to fall silent, not having believed he would reply.

Gobber walks a little forward, "You didn't tell us about this Hiccup. Was it another bird?"

Hiccup recalls the red, the failure, the guilt; he feels the little nudge, the same little nudge that's been with him since birth. To belong. It shatters forth from his lips, free-falls, relieved and frightened that he was taking a chance. A real chance. "No. It was a Night Fury."

The quiet that subdues the quartet is almost tangible; then the grating, mocking laughter from his fellow teenagers. Gobber only stares, "And you had not mentioned this because…?"

Hiccup pointedly looks over his shoulder then at the ground. Gobber nods, "Did you go look for it?"

The young man shakes his head, "It wasn't a fluke though."

Snotlout steps forward to Hiccup, throwing a beefy arm around the slender frame, gripping his cousin's head in a tight, choking lock, "You didn't want us to see yer prize or somethin'?"

Hiccup, annoyed, waves him offhandedly, wanting the boy to let him go. "It's in the woods. I could not exactly go off on my own to retrieve it since it's likely to be massive."

Gobber continues to keep his gaze on the boy. Then, the miracle, "We can go to search for it, if it has not escaped from the netting by now."

Hiccup can't help the relief and bright glee that is threatening to wash his face. This was it! This was the chance he had been praying for. Even if his father does not believe and come to look, he only needs a few witnesses.

He longed for this. He internally prepares himself to head into the forest and prays that, indeed, the dragon did not escape the trappings.

XXX

Assembled together, including him made this the smallest investigation group made. Of course Snotlout and the twins came along to laugh at him if it wound up not being true. He knows he caught a Night Fury—the black blur that painted the canvas of inky blue and white dots had to be a Night Fury. He'd never seen any type of dragon that looked like that. He could only assume it was the Night Fury.

Hiccup had also assumed that the dragon could not have fallen far, but that was also when it was pitch black outside and the creature resembling a falling lump of coal into the wood does not help pinpointing the location. Listening to the grumbling of the teenagers was putting his nerves on edge. What if it _was_ gone? If his inner tug of war had given it the key to flee?

He holds back the scream of frustration that pinched his throat. Instead, he scribbles furiously in his notebook of all the possible places that it could have landed.

Gobber settles down upon a log, "Are ye sure that ye know where it may be?"

Hiccup sighs, "Not exactly. It couldn't have been far off."

Tuffnut scowls, picking his ear, "Really? How come we haven't found it yet?"

Snotlout concurs, not wanting his voice to be unnoticed, "Exactly. I'm thinking you probably lied about it so you can make yourself look good."

Hiccup continues ahead by himself, clenching his hands into fists till his knuckles are stark white. "Look: it _was_ here somewhere!" he shouts, more to himself than them. "How can I lose an entire dragon?" he questions the frigid air, smacking a branch aside. It rams back into his face. The laughter at his pain is drowned out by the ringing in his ears from the hit; the rapid pulse of his heart when he sees overturned earth, branches strewn, and a tree trunk is ripped in two from its middle, each side bent low to the ground in submission, a soldier that never knew what hit it.

Carefully, Hiccup steps over the fallen bramble, treads the moist earth, and peers over the log in front of him only to kneel down quickly. His heart rams inside him, mind in disbelief; he licks his lips, heavy sandpaper upon cracked ridges. He hears the footfalls behind him and he motions for them to slow down, kneel silently beside him. He rises; he quivers, breathes.

Laying before him is a horrible mass of shadow, darkness manifested in tangible form, angular wings jutting out awkwardly and he thinks of the bird. But this was different. This is on purpose; this is his dream come true; this is when he is to prove he is truly of Viking blood and flesh—this time, he has to kill a life.

His fingers gently touched the handle of his knife, an oddly familiar acquaintance.

"I can't believe it. The twerp actually did it," breathes Snotlout, transfixed.

Gobber prods Hiccup forward on legs of stone. Hiccup is able to approach the black terror, this dark demon from unknown depths of man's and gods' imagination. And finds himself suddenly staring into pools of viridian, intense, hard, and this is yet another difference—this being is very much aware that its life is a tiny insignificant thread that can be cut at any moment. The bird had no clue.

Within those beryl jewels, something glittered. It not only knew what was transpiring, it was resigned to its fate.

Hiccup knew then and there he could never do it. Ashamed, sick from the thought of what the others were about to witness, knowing that their words will be the worst he'll ever live to hear, his mind spun. It spun to find a way to save it; to have it live.

"I don't want to kill it," and before they can question his idiocy he says, "I want to take it back to the village."

They still inquire, they still wonder why not kill the thing, and he simply says, "So we can know more about it. Who knows how many there actually are." And with this deft, analytical precision, his wit outshines their brutality.

As the teens head back so they can gather men to carry the dragon back, Hiccup glances down at the beast and suddenly feels sorrier than ever, even sorrier than the bird he unknowingly cut the life short of. He just sentenced this creature to something worse than death—a living death sentence, forever chained to the unforgiving ground.

Yes, Hiccup felt worse than awful.

And within those gems, he saw that the demon knew this too; and it would never, ever, let him forget it.


	2. Geheimnis der Sklaverei

**AN: Thanks for the reviews! I apologize for the wait; the Internet had crashed otherwise it would've been up two days after the first chapter.**

**DISCLAIMER: Quite apparent I do not own this magnificent series.**

_Secret Slavery_

The men had arrived on winged feet, for they couldn't doubt the words of the trio who always, _always_ knew the flukes of their leader's son. They gasp, they talk to their gods in shocked awe; they move forward to drag the beast away. When it thrashes, they groan from the incredible strength and bind it further, tight cords that constrict its blood flow. A young boy that had come briefly wonders if the blood, too, resembles pure ink.

The demon roars, heat blasting the faces of its captors, and the humans see the demented red and gold, the smoke in the back of its gaping maw and wonder if it is possible to swallow the sun. Its life had lay in the hands of that puny _stick_, and resigned itself to whatever the human had planned. But this was worse than perishing, cutting its life too, too short: the dragon felt the annoying scratch of rough thick threads, shutting its scream forever; no, not the wings—anything, _any_thing but its wings! And the coil tightened, and the outraged howl gurgled awfully in the clenched throat, fire spewing, and its heart wept for the expanse of blue.

Trapped, forever, in a manmade, unnatural future…

Hiccup watched the procession with a façade of calm intuitiveness, yet inside his mind swum with all the thoughts of: _what have I done? What have I done?_

The baleful glare of jagged green stone pierced him through and his breathing fettered. Hiccup swallowed. He wondered if anyone else noticed the intelligence displayed before them. Was it just him that sees it? Or, perhaps, he was simply seeing things due to the chagrin he'd suddenly felt from all those years ago? He was not sure. Hiccup had seen something, but a part of him wanted to believe it was nothing, nothing at all.

Dragons are not like they were.

As they reached the village, felt the crowd press upon him as they hooted and praised, he felt the tingle of something unfamiliar prickle his back, and he couldn't stop the grin that spread along his face. As they put the dragon in its place, he forgot about it all, high on the feeling of belonging.

The dragon no longer felt like his concern and a part of him felt awful.

But with it locked away, he could not feel the glare that wanted to melt the stone, melt into his flesh and thus forgot the demon in the dark.

XXX

Black that looks gray; the scuttle of spiders; talons dig into solid rock…

Light floods in—

—pupils dilate, green jewels glitter—

—a blue streak, sea air wafts in—

—a heart thuds in anticipation—

—home calls—

—a roar, quick, move, move, _don't_ let it go!—

—it's _gone_—

—and the dragon rams into the massive wooden door that barricades him in, keeps him from reaching the place where he belongs. It bellows furiously, shoulders violently against the walls, thrashing and flailing. The dragon shoves itself against the harsh stones. He feels the confined space squeeze tighter, moving upon his frame, he can't breathe…

A smell touches his nostrils and sees the outline of mangled flesh, a faint tinge of blood coating the meat. He hears life moving within it, hears the soft sound of tiny wings buzzing. He comes closer to sniff it, bristles at the cumbersome flies, the maggots… The creature glares at piece of meat: it mocks, it taunts, it jeers _you'll never be free again, you belong to us_—

Teeth snap, talons shred, digging into dead cells, turning it into a pile of something worse than unrecognizable. Angered, heat burns the back of its throat, blasts the mushy, bloody goo and hears the satisfying sound of crackling flesh, boiling blood. The scent of its rage and dead carcasses fills the prison with an unpleasant, nauseating scent. The buzzing returns—

The dragon whips his tail about, wanting to rid of that tedious noise, and when he succeeds in destroying it, the silence is deafening.

He cries well into endless long days and nights, hours upon hours that mesh together into an agonizing circle of time that means little and everything. He never hears its fellow kind scream and thrash save for when their tempers flare from not being fed. Why do they not fight? Even here, the beast refuses to throw its dignity and pride aside—it will not remain quiet, its voice must be heard.

He wishes for his kin to cry with him. It listens for similar outraged howls and hisses, but again they only mewl and whine for food that has no flavor, leftovers and scraps that would not be able to feed even the smallest dragon.

"Why do you not fight? Demand for your freedom! You're dragons!" he'd plea, tongue hardened at the edge, words soft.

"I'm too hungry to fight… Where are they? Why aren't they feeding us?"

He _can't_ be reduced to their level of _domestication_—crying only when their bellies are empty, forgetting freedom, not being able to remember that they are not owned, they belong to themselves. They're not prizes and trophies: they're the unsung gods that are feared by those who do not comprehend their majesty.

But he is being reduced to a stupid animal and the dragon knew the fact to be true. In his fit of hopeless wrath, he had clawed and bitten into himself, losing all common sense, all plausible thought, and one particular bite had made a nasty mark upon his hind quarter. Is he really being reduced to this?

The dragon felt so useless, felt alone, felt life seeping out of his very marrow.

It's not that the beast was a sociable creature—many dragons are solitary, save for the little ones; but he has no home, no throne to return to; the moon and sun are now farther away than before, and he could no longer feel the exhilarating sensation of wind beneath his wings, sweep over his scaly hide, had no physical claim upon anything.

The dragon no longer was feared. He lost everything.

The light streamed in again; he does not move for the prison is shut before he can even blink.

The flop of a solid thing had hit the ground. The dragon rises onto his haunches, sits tall and straight, looking at the decaying flesh. His stomach rumbles. Even this unappealing crap is beginning to seem decent…

Pride flares, dignity ignites; so does the cadaver.

A mournful groan seeps out from his lips. Why, why is starvation taking so _long_?

It swallows painfully, is reminded of thirst. Water… the ones outside, the horrid pink things, they never give him water. Tongue heavy, he dreams of cool wetness, the odd way water will pour down into his body, fizz and slightly evaporate from the natural fire that swirls inside his frame, and it feels like warm steam.

Warmth… he wants the sun. Despite the heat that resides in his bowels he wants the beautiful heat that provides life. His blood is always so unbearably cold on its own, frigid ice in his veins.

The world is just outside this miniscule hellhole, beckoning with its tantalizing siren song.

This was all _that one's_ fault. That moronic twig covered in pale pink skin.

Sometimes the dragon didn't know what was worse, the fact he was so stupidly caught by that damned creature or that death wasn't finding it fast enough.

XXX

Hiccup stood before the door, washed in silver, hand just a little bit away from the lock…

What was he doing exactly?

The young man couldn't shake the feeling off. Since coming back to the village, carrying the night's very demon, a godsend of vengeance and fury in true form, Hiccup did not think much about the dragon. His father had been overjoyed beyond all measure, and Hiccup had never felt such love emanate out of his father before. In his childhood, he had never questioned whether or not Stoick _loved_ him as a parent should adore offspring—he'd only surmised that Stoick just never _liked_ him all that much.

Hiccup would often tell the tale in the Great Hall, embarrassed, but brimming with more confidence than he had ever felt in his existence. The only dragon he had ever caught, the very first, and many Vikings are usually quite proud when the youngsters slay or capture their first dragon. But this was no everyday dragon: it was a Night Fury.

"Stoick your son is quite the Viking!"

"To think that the Night Fury is so enormous—well done young Hiccup!"

"Hiccup, m'boy, and ta think you'd done it all with that weird contraption!"

What had pierced his heart was when, on the day they'd brought the Night Fury, Stoick had taken Hiccup aside and, in the lowest, softest voice he'd ever heard him in, murmured, "Your mother would be very proud, my son."

That had meant the world and more.

The other teenagers had begun to treat him differently as well. Snotlout would tease him, but in a joking friendly manner (though Hiccup would still come out with bruises); the twins would romp about and holler his name in public, invite him to hang out. Astrid was the only one who did not change; if anything, she seemed colder, which had caused tension between them.

"She's jealous that you got noticed, that's all, and you didn't even have training like we did," Tuffnut had said within earshot of the young woman.

After she'd pounded Tuffnut into a barrel, she'd looked scornfully at Hiccup and stalked off.

If he was honest with himself the attention was quite dizzying after a while. Luckily, it toned down somewhat but no one was going to forget about his accomplishment for a long time. Gobber had told him that some of the parents were calling him the Night Vanquisher, which the smaller children had made up to honor him. When he walks around, they would call out to him using that moniker and sometimes he would have to remember hard that they mean him.

Everything felt surreal—so surreal and dreamlike that the young lad had actually forgotten about the beast that had given him this glory. It was not until Fishlegs had asked the height, weight and number of shots the dragon could make that Hiccup truly recalled the Night Fury.

Despite his new status, he had subconsciously made certain to avoid the ring. In the night, images were conjured: the sky hazy, the sun's hot face sending flames to lick the ash; black thick clouds would swirl, molding its shape over red tongues, absorbing the ash into its wispy skin, and he'd hear the booming shout of thunder. Lightning flashed, a brilliant white thin strip that stabbed a mountainside, and from the debris, a shadow emerged, powerful, godlike, emanating raw energy, specks of color in the black. Teeth gleamed, perfect rows of moonstones, lightning illuminating the double-edged knives, and they burned crimson stains when the maw opened, the sun peering over the deadly stakes and the scream would burst from his lips when a ray seared into him, obliterating his whole being, the very last thing he would ever hear being the demonic cry for revenge—

Cold sweat clung to his skin and Hiccup would breathe in and out, shuddery weak gasps and he can never remember that dream, though he's had it every night for the past month.

He'd been brought here on a whim, but inside he knew it had to have been for a different accord.

Was this a smart idea? Probably not… there was no one here but him, the door, and the hellish ghoul of darkness that was behind it. This was the only time that he'd be able to see it on his own, for in the day no one would be able to let him view it, observe it, learn about it. But learn what? What had he wanted to keep it for?

He gulped.

One footstep forward…

His digits touch cool metal, pry away the wood.

Gods this was not going to be a smart idea.

Hiccup pulled it with all his strength, the hinges squeaking in protest—

And he looked into the black, saw nothing, nothing but the pair of beryl that reminded him so much of nature in a fit of tumultuous rage.

Air rushes out of his lungs, pinned against the floor of the ring, and he meets the eyes up close, hatred stinging his skin.

No, this was not a smart idea. Not at all…

XXX

The full moon was too much, too much and the beautiful celestial body whispered that now was the time for him to come back, come back and taste freedom, return home.

Solitary confinement had taken its toll upon the mind, the feeling of captivity pressing upon the fragility of his thoughts.

When stark white bathed the floor, spilling heaven's wine upon his senses, the dragon had thought this was another waking dream meant to torment him further. The salty fragrant air, the first breeze to filter into his being nearly made it purr.

Another scent infiltrated its senses, disrupting the perfect moment.

That one: _him_.

A blur of sable, black lightning in motion, it remembered, breaks from the peace, and pounced upon the creature. Wrath boiled beneath its skin, seeing the puny little nobody that had managed to bring it down. He salivated—not to eat the pathetic little bag of flesh, but for the desire to sink into the body and rip it limb from limb.

The dragon knew that the being knew what it wants to do, saw the flicker of fear and relished it.

It stared into the peculiar shade of green that reminded the beast of the vast ocean when the sun hit the blue just right, reminded it of the forest in which it made its earthly domain. It pinched the small brittle shoulders; saw the wince.

Good.

One quick movement of his jaw and the job would be done. But he wanted more than that—a swift death did not seem like enough; to make the human pay for all that the beast had endured. He wanted more than retribution, more than mere vengeance. He wanted to make the human suffer.

He stares at the human; the human stares back.

Why was the human not screaming, calling for its members to help?

The human licks its fleshy lips, making the dragon snarl.

"I'm sorry,"

The words mean nothing to the dragon though he knows what it means; the tone is what catches it off guard. The remorse, the shame—it puzzled the dragon briefly. No matter.

The human's eyes flicker down somewhere. The dragon growls deep in his chest, not wanting the human to make any movement. Then… he felt something. Something horribly wrong…

Pinning the human closer to the ground, the dragon moves his tail. No…

He whirls around to look, disbelieving, and his left tail fin is gone. It's _gone_! _How can it be gone?_

Hiccup rises quickly and scurries over to the farthest corner of the ring, watching in dreaded fascination as the dragon bucks around the vicinity in what looks to be rage but it felt deeper than that. It was so much more than that. It does not make a sound, aware that if it does the others would come and lock it away again. Hiccup knew it was intelligent but thought that it might be more animalistic. It certainly was behaving like one, having realized an important piece of its appendage was torn, ripped away forever.

And that is his fault too.

Hiccup tried to ease along the side of the ring to safety but that was a mistake as soon as his body went through with it. The dragon recalled that he was there and snarls quietly; eyeing him with such intensity he froze to the spot. His eyes glance at the missing fin; the dragon lets out a warning growl.

Hiccup kneels down slowly, just staring, knowing that nothing can be done. He'll be killed before the first Viking enters the ring if he calls for aid.

The dragon and he stare for what feels an eternity.

Hiccup licks his lips once more; leans a little inward. The dragon bares its teeth.

"I… I'm sorry."

The dragon narrows its eyes.

Hiccup swallows, trying to clear the sudden dry cavern, the tight esophagus. "Look… I didn't mean…" no he couldn't say that—he had meant to catch it. But had he meant to inflict such damage, no, he did not.

Shadows moved and the beast blended perfectly with the black, silver painting the hide aglow with richness. Hiccup lowered himself to a sitting position. The dragon mimicked his movement by lowering its belly upon the ground, resembling a gigantic serpent.

The soft hisses that came toward him sent shivers down his spine. Hiccup cleared his throat again, saw the elongated ears twitch; the claws drag across the ground…

What was he to do? Why had he kept this thing that causes him nightmares he could never remember as soon as he woke up? He wanted to save its life but look at how well that went. The dragon, obviously, would have preferred death above anything and everything if it could not have its freedom. Hiccup saw, even in the dim moving light, that the dragon was not faring well.

Rising to full height, the young Viking takes a tentative step forward; it hisses.

Hiccup was not sure if he wanted to put the humongous being back in its place. He is sure that he will not be able to, not by himself. He should attempt it though…

"Go back in."

Shadows remain stiff.

He takes another step towards it, hand outstretched. There's no sound this time but he feels its eyes. "It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you."

He finds it peculiar; the way the human is speaking to him, as though he were a dumb, lame creature. He didn't like that pity coating each word either, that tone that grates his ears. He rises, causing the human to halt in his tracks. He fights back the burble of laughter that threatens his intimidating pose. He knew what the human was saying. Return to his prison. He bit back the growl. One does not dwell amongst their enemies without learning how they speak and what the words mean. His brethren could comprehend the words, but only a fair few knew them all completely like he does.

He did not want to be ordered around like some pathetic sniveling pet. He wants this human to pay. But without his tail fin… he feels another fresh pang of loss sweep along and through him. To lose his ability to fly… is he no longer a dragon?

Hiccup continues to look at the dragon, not wanting to waver. His gaze flickers down at the tail, hears the snarl and immediately returns his eyes back upwards. Did it want to mourn in privacy? He does not understand the creature, but it was worth a try…

The Viking comes forward, pulling the gate further open. He clears his throat. Waits… and to his astonishment the dragon, too, moves toward its cell, shoulders tense, a rumbling reverberating within its broad chest. As Hiccup shuts the gate, he does not see the stance droop, see the dragon flop upon the ground, lifeless, questioning if it should just give up.

What good was a dragon if he cannot fly?

XXX

The dragon continues to look at him. It has not lost its ability to think.

Since that night Hiccup has made it his business to come every evening, when all have fallen asleep, to check on the dragon. Setting the torch onto one of the drier places of the cell, for he'd never guessed it'd be so damp at nightfall, he reaches into the basket, wet from fish slime and water, and pulls out a trout. He dangles it in front of dragon's face, not mockingly, just to show what he had brought it.

The dragon only remains unmoving. Half the time he feels its eyes bore into him and the other half is when the beast ignores him completely, a forlorn appearance spreading over its demonic features and he'd feel the guilt nettle.

But what does a dragon think about that causes such sadness to be display to the world? This one clearly wants to kill him—that can be seen by anyone. Hiccup only knows one thing that could make it look so miserable: the loss of flight.

The human continues to stare. The dragon wishes the thing was gone from sight.

Hiccup sighs, "Well, this is difficult…"

Silence.

"I _am_ sorry about this whole thing," he says to it, knowing it won't have a clue what he's saying.

Nothing: only hate borne on invisible waves.

"You probably want to kill me. I know that much about you."

He doesn't see the dragon look at him differently.

The Viking chuckles a little, "You'd have to wait in line for that—there's bound to be some people that want to do that first still."

Suddenly, the dragon snorts, rolls its eyes.

Hiccup stares, trying to place whether or not he had imagined it. He sees the dragon resume looking at him, vigilant in its gaze. And his own thought hits him: why he wanted it saved, the level of intelligence that he never sees in any creature but his own kind, the look just now, the subconscious recollection of a cry that resounds in his sleep. And something else—the way his ancestors used to talk about dragons, that the dragons were creatures that communicated in their own special way, creations of the gods that they used to strike fear into man.

Or speak to them.

"You understand me."

The dragon rises, suspicious.

And he figures out the truth of why he wanted it, even though he hadn't known it before. Maybe the gods had sent it to him… "Teach me your language."


	3. nicht bereit Teilnahme

**AN: Proper gratitude time~ Thanks to: Beastial Moon, Shade Slayer 333, Yami-sama42, crimsonphoenix13, Loti-miko, Saphirabrightscale, Soulfightersu, Toothless-the-nightfury, Future Aviator, ShootMe002, Ancient scripture, Gamedreamer, Idoloni, LanHikari200x, Portgas D. Nikky and anyone following in anon for the warm, gracious comments! I'm so glad to hear it's not a bore—I'm incredibly out of practice on this fandom. I apologize for the awful lateness.**

**And yes Toothless-the-nightfury and Loti-miko, this idea is from the snippets on The Odd Ones. I thought people have forgotten about those drabbles, actually.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own this series, and the idea has probably been done so I may or may not own that either. I own the words.**

_Unwilling Participation_

The dragon had a difficult time keeping his expression blank, pretending he had no idea just now what the human requested. Teach _this_ human the language of his species?

Unknowingly, he laughs, unaware the human caught the quiet chortle.

"I'm serious," the human continues, coming close, closer than normal.

The dragon gives the boy a nonchalant appraisal: the slender frame, the thin appendages, feet and chest wrapped in dead things, lives gone. Though the Viking is the absolute weakest he's ever seen, he knows the human is far from stupid, unlike the rest of them that seem to thrive on killing without the slightest hint of conscience. After all, this puny tiny being managed to catch him with that contraption, so the human is capable of using his brain.

The anger flares once more, reminds him of this fate he'll have to live with for the rest of his existence, and immediately stands on his haunches, teeth bared, tense, hackles raised. The human trips backwards, falling onto the ground and watching him carefully in fear. It's not as satisfying as the dragon had thought it would be but is relieved that, despite being handicapped, he can still impose a menacing figure.

Hiccup waits until the dragon moves back onto the ground, slithers into the corner and puts its massive head on its forelegs. "I know I don't deserve to learn your language but—"

"'But' nothing you insolent little monster!" the dragon shouts, watching the human cower into himself. He knows the human can only hear his words as a mere roar but either way it's getting through that thick skull that this discussion is pointless.

Hiccup is determined to see this vision come to fruition. Imagine: knowing and communicating verbally with dragons. The possibilities would be endless! He is still not sure as to how or why his subconscious had thought of this, is not even sure where to start, but he will make the dragon change its mind.

Somehow...

Waiting till the dragon calmed down somewhat, Hiccup rises hesitantly to his feet, he turns around to head towards the exit. The first time he had done this he had walked out backwards, watching the creature with his eyes—just in case… but he had not done it in a while since the dragon had only pointedly glared all the numerous times he'd left and came.

The dragon, too, turned about to face the opposite direction, looking directly at the wall of rock so he would not look at the human. Humans are so abhorrently arrogant! That sniveling little twerp really believes that he can waltz and request learning the language of dragons. What had really struck his nerve was the fact the human had asked him, the dragon whom he had shot down.

If that attitude was not conceited and prideful he did not know what was.

Curling further into himself, the dragon suddenly remembers the basket of fish that the human brought him today. Despite the fish smelling infinitely better than the garbage and waste that would normally be given to him, the dragon still would refuse to partake in anything that this human—or any human for that matter—would hand to him. The boy has brought several baskets since he went back into his prison cell. The beast would allow a smirk to crinkle the edge of his mouth, always amused and please when the human would arrive the next night only to see and smell the spoiled meat. Starvation should be coming soon, shouldn't it?

A deep, rumbling growl….

And it wasn't him making the noise on purpose.

The dragon lets out a sigh, slightly annoyed with his body's wanton appetite. He can continue to ignore the food offered to him, he knows he still can, and it's not as though he'll be let out of this dungeon anytime soon. But he wanted to slake his hunger, make it hush.

Raising a brow ridge, the shadow slithers forward, prodding the basket with a foreleg. When the heap of appetizing fish spills upon the ground, his stomach gurgles in anticipated response.

"Oh, be quiet,"

Sniffing one trout daintily, the dragon almost purrs in relief that it truly does smell better and he knows that the taste would be glorious. His tongue darts out on its own accord, licking the scales of the fish before him. Overcome with the realization that starvation would never work on a dragon, he gave in to the sweet delectable flesh. He will need his strength if he is to eventually escape from here.

Despite his hatred for the human, he was glad, for whatever reason that did not matter, the human never brought eels. That made him not want to kill the boy slightly; _slightly_….

XXX

How was he going to convince the dragon to let him learn their ways? Reasoning with dragons was supposed to be easy—many of his people believed that dragons were incapable of understanding, similar to other creatures, such as their livestock. Yet whenever he came into close contact with that demonic presence he was reminded of how terribly wrong they were. The dragon was far from normality—it understood him. He knows it can comprehend his words. How it knows is the question for later. Right now is the time to discover how to change its mind…

"Hey,"

Hiccup jumps from the voice, bumping his head against the bottom of the table where he was kneeling beneath. Coming out, rubbing the back of his skull, the young Viking blushes slightly in embarrassment, "Oh, hey, Astrid,"

"I came to get my axe. I gave it to Gobber yesterday to sharpen,"

"Ah, it's right over here," he tells her, heading over to the weaponry and scanning for hers. Finding it, he grips it with both hands, barely keeping it steady. He feels a slight tinge of envy and awe when she takes it with one hand swings it expertly and admires it.

"It got lighter," she says.

"Did it?"

Astrid blows her bangs from her eyes, looking at him impatiently, "Can't you tell? Aren't you the apprentice of a blacksmith?"

"Sure I can notice differences if _I _get the weapons before they're changed. I don't know how it was before since I didn't work on it,"

"Oh," replies Astrid, "Well, I guess so."

Nervously, he allows the girl to continue inspecting her weapon, busying himself with looking for creases and dents in the shields. The silence is a little awkward but nothing he cannot ignore easily.

"Nice work."

He blinks. "Huh?"

Astrid keeps her eyes focused on her axe, thumbing the edge gently; feeling for impurities she knows won't be there, "On catching that dragon. I didn't know you had it in you,"

"Oh… well, thank you," he would have looked her in the face, would have sounded happier at the praise, but the tone of her voice sounded too similar to reluctance. He's always liked her, even before the crush, before adolescence. He admired her tenacity, her spirit when they were little, never allowing the fact she was a woman make her any less aggressive and domineering than any man. The term 'child prodigy' would have fit her perfectly: her skills with weapons, especially axes, had caused mentors to notice; made many boys envious of her skill but she was also lovely and that gave her leeway to show them up, for they never thought of humiliating such a beautiful girl. Strong women were desired in their after all.

He does not deny that she had been a bit nicer to them when they were children. Of course that only meant she would look at him straight in the eye and only look at him interestedly, not like now where all he saw was apathy and sometimes disgust in those marvelously cerulean pools. It was not until capturing the Night Fury that people had begun to view like a normal person, a living, breathing human being. At times it makes him question them, makes him sick that he used to be regarded so lowly by all, save his father and Gobber who only used to look at him with impatience.

"Hey, did you hear me?"

"What?" he asks.

Astrid is by the doorway, leaning against the frame, axe balanced upon the groove of her shoulder, "Tell Gobber I said thanks for the fix up."

"Oh, yeah, sure,"

Astrid's normal treatment has returned. Flippantly, she scoffs, rolls her eyes, and leaves the shop without another glance. He wonders if she really was jealous of his success or, perhaps, she honestly did not like him and the thought of him succeeding in a feat that was so remarkably legendary left her hostile.

Hostility, withal, is absolutely nailed perfectly by the demon in their ring.

He thinks of the shadow lurking in their manmade cavern, no doubt plotting a way to devour him whole and leave no physical evidence. Many dragons, likely, hold onto grudges, bear ill will towards those who caused their downfalls. But he never thought hatred could run so deep. Though he should be an expert on hatred—he's hated himself for years.

Leaning back on the table then easing into the chair, he picks up a pencil he fashioned with coal and stiff wax paper. He could always allow his mind to roam freely when he draws. It still is his ultimate escape. The woods only offered so much room to leave his earthly troubles behind. Above all he needs to ignore the world and enter the place of calm he creates in his mind, trapped in a waking state of dream and imagination.

The lines formed, black lines intertwining, forming thick pronounced layers above thinner streaks. Magic: dark rainbows and lightning, and within two large ovals of sepia, the sword cuts in, creates large circles, craters, Absentmindedly, the creator moves back to look at it, admires the uncanny resemblance to moving shadow, can feel the black heat. But the eyes scan downwards, and realize why it feels incomplete: a tail fin. Missing…

Hiccup's mind churns and thinks, chest rising and falling with each excited breath. He knows what to do now.

XXX

His rage had been a consuming litany, procuring images of wrath, dancing, red, in his mind. But there was only so much anger he can experience before it exhausts him totally; it can fuel any dragon or man for years, however, it does not change the fact that it is a silent disease, festering into mind and body. Though the dragon can feel its anger bubbling beneath its skin, he knows, too, that keeping it burning will drain him fast and he needs to conserve his energy, rationally think.

He lies upon his forelegs, breathes quietly. He's too used to the silence and even the loudest breaths seemed thunderous. But the human that comes in would shatter the absence of sound, and, in a demented way, he would relax, remember he's not the only living thing in the world.

"Stupid human…" he says. He winces; too loud.

Light spills in; had he fallen asleep? He can never tell—it's always colorless.

"Hey," murmurs the voice.

The dragon glances in the boy's direction, bright in the now slightly dim vicinity, soft waves of scarlet and amber melding upon his face, specks of gold in the pair of viridian that watch him expectantly. Suddenly he felt homesick, recalling how the sun breaks through forest canopies.

Looking away, the dragon decides to focus on its breathing for lack of nothing better to do.

"I see you ate this time."

He glances at the human, forgetting that he had eaten the fish provided but did not dispose of the basket. "There's a first time for everything. If you push your luck you'll experience death sooner than you'd hoped and your first and only time will be painfully slow."

Hiccup chuckles, "I may not understand what you say but I'm pretty sure that was a jab at me,"

The dragon stirs at the sound, noting the strange sort of emptiness that came forth. He'd never heard a human laugh before either, considering they were usually yelling orders to kill his kin or bellowing obnoxiously in celebration for whatever festivity they hold for their village. Crude, filthy things…

Hiccup looks at the beast, catching the feral glint as it pondered something that weighed heavily on its mind. It turns to glance at him and hurriedly he averts his eyes. Clearing his throat, Hiccup lets out a puff of air. "Listen… about the thing I asked of you—"

"Forget it!" says the dragon hotly, appalled at the impudent arrogance that the human dared to ask again.

"Just hear me out," begins Hiccup when, suddenly, he is pelted to the wall, his torch falling from his hand and clanking loudly upon the ground. Gasping rapidly, he stares at the green within black, a terrified gulp trapped in his throat.

"I'm not teaching you _anything_! I _refuse_ to teach you anything!" the creature snarls in a whisper, nightshade petals dipped in acid. The boy may not understand what he's saying but the fire beneath his words, soft thin silk that burns is enough to get his point across.

"I know I sound arrogant when I ask of this," the human begins. The claws dig into the flesh of his shoulder but he continues, gritting his teeth, "But teach me. I'm not going to stop until you say yes,"

"It'll take more than you pestering me to convince me that teaching you is a good idea," the claws constricted, inching around the slim throat…

"What if I offered you something?" chokes out Hiccup. The claws cease, retract slightly before enclosing over him again.

The dragon breathes out terribly dry air, smoldering against his face. "I'll try to fix this. I will fix it—I'll pay you back for what I've done to you,"

"Liar!" the dragon loses his temper and Hiccup's eardrums ring with the malicious tone reverberating, "What can you give me back?"

Hiccup does not comprehend the words, the loud harsh booms or the slithering satin that coiled around his heart and made him fear. But he knows anguish, he knows despair, he knows what it means and feels like to have no hope left.

"I can help you… fly."

The dragon's eyes widen a margin for the briefest second before narrowing dangerously, his rage settling into a numb icy apathy, a stone falling into his being. "You… are… sick." He knows humans are atrocious, spewing fallacies, encouraging dreams that will remain ash upon earth. How can this human, pinned beneath the weight of his paw, look him straight in the eye and lie to him?

He'll make the damn human pay severely.

Hiccup is not a stupid young man and he realizes a little too late that he had just told the dragon something that worsened the situation and now he had no guarantee that he'll be able to learn the language of this species; unless he tries to convince the dragon—and fast.

"I know you don't believe me—"

The beast let out a sharp snort, "You're damn right I don't."

"—but I can help you. I've been thinking about your…" he glances nervously at the long whip of ebony he cannot see, he can only hear the threatening way it slinks along the stone, "tail and I know what to do. I've already started working on a device that will enable you to fly."

"Ha!" the demon barks, staring into the pale face, "_You_? Enable _me_ to _fly_? How stupid do you believe me to be?"

Hiccup, despite the surmounting terror as the talons dug into him, takes a deep calming breath and looks straight into shadow, "I'll show it to you."

The dragon snorts, a low rumble in the back of his throat, "How?"

Hiccup waits, trying to keep his pulse steady, and fights back the sigh of relief when the creature allows him to move, though it is terrifyingly close to him. He walks cautiously to the large doors, feels the lock and opens it wide. Rich white beams bathe the ring and he notices the dragon halts briefly to observe and take in the moment but it notices him looking at it and hisses.

Hiccup begins to walk over to one side of the ring but ceases his movements when the dragon behind him lets out a surreptitious snarl. Though he has no clue to what the actual words are, it is not difficult to figure out what the dragon is 'saying' to him—they're all angry or suspecting sounds.

"It's over there," he tells the beast, motioning for it to follow him.

The pair makes their short way to the edge of the ring and the dragon narrows his eyes below at the strange contraption that the human is holding before him. He gestures at it with a nod of his head, making an odd gurgling sound between a growl and whine, "What is that?"

Hiccup turns to him, raising his arms so the dragon can peer at it more closely, "It's not finished yet but… this is what's going to help you fly."

Was this human filled to the brim with lunacy? How could this thing, made of dead skin and thin breakable thread and pliable metal possibly aid him into returning to the sky? It is unbelievable…no, it is impossible, that's all there is to it.

"Try it on?" the inquiry and request is no more than a whisper, reaching his elongated ears. The delicate intertwining of manmade items made the dragon wary.

He shakes his head at the human.

The human's face falls for a second but a new determination sets upon him. "Once; attempt it…"

The dragon feels his heart flutter at the chance. The human being able to help him fly is too surreal and the dragon knows it will not be able to happen. But what if it works…?

He is torn between the possibilities of chance; the human looks insistent, somewhat nervous but in the gleam of viridian, he sees something else, a confidence that this was worth trying out. What then if he accepts the offer? And, above all, how long will this deal last…? He cannot ask the human this question, for the boy will not be able to understand it.

The dragon sits, flickers translucent orbs to Hiccup's face then back to the contraption.

"Perhaps," is all he says then retreats to the darkness once more. The human is not going to stop.


	4. unerwartete Wendungen

**I apologize for the lateness. It really shouldn't have taken so long and it sucks that it's short but I paid more attention to editing this time (I hope) plus: academic problems, Internet crashes for about a couple weeks (got it back today), got into a car accident on the 14****th****, left arm went through some freaky peeling due to crash (I can go back to writing now), more financial dilemmas and lots of other crap. Sorry, but, y'know, when, as people put it, 'shit hits the fan' you kinda don't feel like doing **_**any**_**thing. Updates will be slow and will be updated when days are **_**really**_** bad, I think, especially with college starting again for me in a week; I'll give proper thanks for last chapter and this one in the following chapter but I really do appreciate all the lovely support and that you've all been well. 3**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own it, sillies, but I do own the thoughts. **

_Unexpected Turns_

Again, he returned to beg. The human is persistent, which astonished the dragon. The pale fleshing continues to let him roam about the ring, walking, sometimes, several paces away beside him at a yard or so but the dragon had made it perfectly clear that any closer was a direct guarantee to losing a limb. The human no qualms against that though he made it clear himself that he was not going to give up easily and held the odd contraption over his shoulder every night, repulsive and beckoning.

The silence is thick, and the dragon notices how the human eyes the contours of his back. Continuing to look ahead, the dragon suddenly spreads out his wings and the young man starts, hurriedly moving back to avoid from hitting the hard, bony structure of the right wing when he is suddenly swept from beneath by the tail and lands hard upon the ground.

Hiccup groans while holding his reeling head, and looks at the sardonic creature, which appears to be stifling a triumphant chortle. The Viking's shoulders tense and he rises angrily to his feet, "What is your problem?"

The dragon ignores him, leaping quietly over a weapons case to stretch his legs, recalling faintly that he used to take off like that… He looks back at the human, eyes glittering with distaste, before he goes about his way to get as far as possible from the boy.

"Hey! You know, instead of griping about how you can't fly, maybe you should—oh, I don't know—_try_ out my invention?"

He halts, silver patches lazily shining upon the ink, and the beast growls contemptuously, "Honestly, what makes you think you can do anything?"

Hiccup, in a show of bravado, suddenly hurls the saddle at the dragon's head. The dragon's eyes widen a margin, not due to the fact it barely missed him, but that the human had dared to throw it. He sees the boy's eyes narrow then rise in shock at what his fury had made him do.

Hiccup waits. He is definitely never going to be able to convince the dragon of anything now—but it wouldn't matter; it would probably eat him in a few seconds…

Instead, the dragon only met his gaze—

—and a large comet of hot white and blue whistled past his left side, blackening the side of the ring where it hit and licking the wall till it burned a brilliant scarlet and gold before dying out from lack of fuel.

"I'm sorry!" he shouts, appalled at how rashly he acted and dreading the vengeance the dragon may seek.

The dragon continues to glare at the young Viking, "You filthy little…"

Hiccup feels his knees shake, the insides of his hands secrete sweat, yet he finds himself rooted to the spot while every fiber of his being is screeching to run. But the other side of him, quiet and dormant, nudged him to speak, tells him to humble himself before the majestic creature, "It's just… you've never even tried to see if it works. I'm sorry."

Green oculars raise a margin; he snorts and turns away.

XXX

He did not go again the night after or the following, too ashamed with himself and too anxious for what may happen to him if he steps foot into that arena. Hiccup often does head to the ring during the day to watch the other teenagers spar and practice but his eyes never set completely upon their moving forms, always glancing to the barricaded wooden doors that bar in the nightmarish prisoner. He knows better, is unsure, wonders if it had been a good idea to not kill it and keep the demon for himself. Hiccup finds the quiet unnerving, the lack of horrific cries eerie, recalls how desperate it had been to escape.

This particular afternoon is borderline sweltering, especially for a place such as Berk. The snow is not icily coating every inch of their homes nor is hail threatening to crush them beneath their apocalyptic frozen hell. The sun blazes, it causes normally pale flesh to flush and his eyes fall upon the door; is it too hot in there for the dragon? During the nights, it is damp, cold, but while in the day, if the temperature is too irregular…

He almost darts down to release the creature, terrible fear crawling its slimy way into the pit of his gut.

"Hiccup,"

He turns to greet his father, "Oh, hey Dad."

Stoick pats his son's shoulder; the young Viking noticed that his father is touching him more frequently than normal since he had captured the Night Fury. Stoick misread his son's thoughtfully worried expression as a sign of wanting the join the match and nudged him heartily, "Why don't you join them?"

Hiccup looks at his father, surprised, "What? Me, go there? Ha, I-I don't think that's—"

"Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, the only Viking in history to have ever captured a Night Fury, is too nervous to go and fight his fellow men?"

There it is: the slight disappointment painting the words, impatience dripping along every syllable. Hiccup knows he should not care as much, yet it feels as though he were being thrown back to childhood, treading dangerous ground, fearful of failure.

He sighs, resigns, "I'll try."

Stoick immediately brightens; glad his son will attempt to go up against the others.

Hiccup walks at a slow enough pace to keep himself from entering the ring too soon but eventually he reaches the entrance, hears the faint groan of the heavy gate above him and clumsily lifts a shield. Not bothering to peruse the weaponry, he takes a simple dagger and heads toward the group.

"Hiccup! Long time no see!" greets Snotlout, Ruffnut and Tuffnut waving with overdramatized emphasis while Fishlegs waves his fingers, too caught up in the Dragon Book. Hiccup grins sheepishly, rubs the back of his neck; his eyes move to his left and he catches the sharp skies within the embankment of a winsome face, flaxen locks glinting from the overbearing sun. He waits for acknowledgement, not wanting to appear too straightforward since her mood ranges drastically with him; his heart pounds unspeakably hard.

She gives him a curt nod, rests her axe upon a slender shoulder and heads in the opposite direction to practice her throwing. His heartbeat lessens till it is a soft thrumming beat, and he can breathe again. Walking forward to the other teenagers, Hiccup awkwardly holds his shield, ponderous and difficult to manage with the thin handle on its back, biting into the curve of his palm.

Unsure of what precisely to do, he stands there, attempts to appear inconspicuous as he quietly, slowly, steps towards the door where the Night Fury is hidden from the world, and he feels an odd feeling of pity squirm into his chest whenever he looks at the sky above him, so incredibly blue it hurts his eyes.

"Hey, Hiccup, you wanna practice over here?" shouts Fishlegs, holding the Dragon Book close and Tuffnut gestures the boy to come over, both grinning.

He moves toward them when violent belabor begins, the strong protest of the double doors deafening in the arena, and he hears the clamor of the beast behind him as he imagines it slinking, charging, raging forward to break through the only way it can escape.

The other Vikings scramble about for items to barricade the door from breaking from its hinges, and Hiccup almost wants to tell them to stop, to give in and just let the damn animal go already, tired of its moans, tired of feeling guilt when he sees its forlorn state.

But he is stubborn like any other Viking. He will find a way to learn from it.

XXX

Cramped, it feels cramped, there's no air, there's no air!

The dragon lets out another strangled huff of breath, tries to stretch out his massive frame, but the darkness not only swallows his body, paints it even blacker than nothingness, it squishes him into a pathetic ball and he roars frustration.

He inches toward the door, presses his face upon the ground, and is greeted by the wonderfully salty air that barely manages to get through the thin crevice betwixt the door and stony earth. His tongue lolls out. Evening approaches; it slithers into his skin, bubbles delicately, silver droplets mingling with his blood and he almost releases the harsh whine in the back of his hot throat.

He had heard the human today, right outside his prison hold, the closest the Viking has come in a confusing haze of days and nights with black suns and stars that shine brightly in a light cerulean pool to tease the wisps of clouds. Time has no place here, an illusion in the emptiness, but he notices his life dim in and out of consciousness as the heat poured liquid wrath in his cell, titian quicksilver, and the dragon had given into his dire need for clean fresh water, for the relaxing chill to counter the stifling rank that perfumes about him.

But the human does not hear; the dragon only hears scuffles, shocked and cautious shouts, and the dragon curses his pride then and there: he should have taught the human, at the very least give him some stupid clue for when it becomes too much in hot ebony.

So when the door tentatively opens of the sudden, shafts of white magic illuminating his sight, his eyes squeeze shut from the abrupt change of dark to light but his body darts forward and he allows himself to bellow softly in triumph before collapsing in a relieved heap upon the ground.

Moments of silence flitter past, feathery trails; then, "Better?"

The dragon lazily opens one eye but makes sure to give the human a glare nonetheless.

The Viking chews his bottom lip; large circles of deep viridian furtively look in any direction. "Do you need anything?"

The question, unspeakably gentle, makes his heart cease pumping for one beat, two beats… The dragon shakes his massive head, pointedly looking in the other direction. His stomach betrays him—they both hear the loud, pitiful gurgle.

Hiccup lets out a short bark of a laugh and immediately covers his mouth when the beast turns to stare, heatedly, affronted that he dared to mock him to his face. Did the human have no brain?

"Sorry, it's nothing," the Viking says, but he smiles, kindly, and the dragon continues to gaze at him, curious of the expression and what it means. "Here, look, I'll be right back with something for you." And before the dragon can huff a grunt of disapproval, the human boy is jogging towards the gate. He suddenly halts and turns around, gestures with his hand, palm open, fingers slightly splayed, towards the mythical being and moves it a bit up and down: _Stay._

Oddly, the dragon hadn't even thought of escaping—so shocked was he by the human's sudden departure, sudden kindness, that it had not even whispered along the surface of his mind that the boy was leaving through a hole that leads to freedom. He is sorely tempted now to make a break for it, ignore the hand—

—the void that is his gut moans pathetically—

—and the human is gone. The Viking must have decried what flickered in his hesitation to remain and flee. Instantly, the beast is enraged with himself, "My wit withered to nothing in that cell!" How could he wait? Why did he not bind to the wilderness that is home? When the hand, small, insignificant, rose in an unspoken command the dragon did not even ponder… it spoke so loudly, that one simple, silent movement: _Stay…. Trust me_.

"Ridiculous," he spits out loud to the murmur of wind and canvas of jet.

The harsh grind and squeak reverberates in the vicinity; the dragon glances in the direction of soft pitter patter. A strong scent of fresh fish wafts towards him and he holds back the grateful mewl that gravitates upwards into the wide expanse of his parched throat.

"Here you go," the human says, placing them upon the ground, almost reverently, cautious.

The dragon holds back the desire to gobble the entire pile on sight—the scent of fresh food is nearly overwhelming but, poised, dignified, he forces himself to take in one fish and almost dies on the spot but realizes that it is difficult to swallow, having not been fed properly for countless days and nights. Gradually, his mouth and stomach are accustomed to wholesome nourishment and he devours the pile swiftly. He feels eyes upon his frame, inquisitive, intense, but he ignores.

Once he finishes his meal, he lies upon the ground in something close to contentment. His stomach may be satisfied but his entire being still yearns for that freedom. He turns to the human, alien, translucent from the light of gods and their feathery children; the moon leers, the human eyes him and the dragon stares back.

"I'll bring more tomorrow."

The dragon does not even give him an appreciative mewl, will not thank him; but he concedes with a nod: tomorrow, he would like it if the human brings more.

The human smiles nervously and the dragon's close scrutiny of an expression so foreign makes the human look away. Despite the human's odd behavior, perplexing the creature, he knows there's something lingering beneath the façade of gentleness and the dragon flicks his tail at the Viking, "You still want me to teach you, don't you?"

Hiccup does not comprehend but the intelligence within beryl, the crease of scales in a frown, suspicious narrow eyes, and he licks his lips, a dart of pink upon a paler shade. "Same terms,"

The dragon stretches, turns to the moon. It continues to grin, malicious, wanton.

He turns to the boy, nods: Very well.

Hiccup cannot help the beat his heart skips.

XXX

Anxious, he waits for the sun to kiss goodbye the sky, soft fingers of gold reminiscently folding over darkening purple hues, not wanting to leave until they must. Deep black settles and Hiccup shoves himself into warmer clothes, tiptoeing towards the door; he waits for the deep snore his father always makes—loud enough to call upon the dead—and when he does, he uses the noise to open the door and slink out through the opening large enough to allow him squeezing room.

His trod is swift and light but his heart hammered mercilessly within the confines of bone and flesh; he feared the trepidation so loud it may awaken anyone who heard and he fought to keep it quiet, rein it in check to match the softer rhythm of his feet but to no avail—he was so excited! Admittedly he was horribly nervous but he was finally going to learn something from a living breathing Night Fury; all of it still felt so surreal, life taking an unexpected turn he never would have known would occur save for in his wildest of dreams.

Latching onto the lever that raised the iron gates he tapped his foot as he waited for it to raise enough to slip beneath then had to wait till it reached the top to shut it properly, for fear the lever would groan from doing so much too quickly. Once he'd gotten the silly thing to abide he jogged towards the cell and pried it open with nimble, slightly trembling fingers.

The dragon does not dart out as he normally did, but walks out with square refined shoulders, gait slow and noble. He waits for the boy to approach and stand before him, and the dragon can practically feel the excitement radiating in waves off translucent skin. He is a bit amused but he, nonetheless, resents himself for giving into the request. A human learning the language of his kind… all for meager rations of fish that cannot even compare to how many he used to catch alone; he hates it when life takes unexpected turns.

Hiccup waits for the dragon to do something, stares intensely, but nearly jumps into the air when the tail moves forward and, with its rounded fine tip, began to make marks upon the rough ground, wishing there was dirt so the human could follow more closely.

As though he shared the same thought the human used the similar gesture from last night and darted over to the assorted weapons where he pulled out a bag of sand that they used for target practice. Hulling it towards their spot, he pours the contents out, smoothing out the fine small grains and looks up, expectant. The dragon pays him no mind and resumes his work. The tail, solidly black, reminds him of his makeshift pencil, and he watches interestedly as the dragon makes a simple curving line which begins curling into itself, almost a perfect though incomplete circle when the tail suddenly darts diagonally creating a short line at the end of it, located within the very center.

Hiccup looks up at the beast; the dragon then looks up at the moon above them and the boy deduces that it's the symbol for it. On a clean patch of sand, the dragon creates another symbol, three quick vertical lines that are spaced evenly but closely together and on the top of the trio he draws a curving line and another beneath, the arch connecting to the lines whilst the ends point outward. The dragon looks up, white hot dots reflecting in viridian and he sees a similar reflection in the boy's when he mimics. "The sky?" inquires Hiccup.

The dragon nods.

Hiccup frowns at the symbol and the dragon narrows his eyes, wonders what the boy is thinking. He doesn't have to wait long, "It's… it's an interesting way of saying 'sky.'"

The dragon cannot explain the intricacies for why his kind had created it thus—the boy doesn't understand him and he's not sure if he ever will, even if he somehow manages to learn the language. The sky is always receding into itself, its colors weaving into themselves and being somehow swallowed to form another side of itself, dark and light fighting to dominate but unable to exist without the other, which is why the curving lines are pushing in, at the very ends of the vertical lines, to signify how it clashes and joins, just barely and yet completely in harmony; and the three vertical lines are to represent its endless expanse, seemingly the only thing one can depend on—knowing full well that it has no end yet even that seems to draw a veil upon eyes: the sky is unpredictable, clear one moment and spewing thunder and icy stones the next. It has a double meaning, the veil over eyes: his kind knows the sky is endless, but it was also made to mock man, who, despite how superior they believe to be over the dragons, they are still in the dark to certain truths, believing that they may fall off the end of the world.

The symbol for 'ocean' is distinctly similar but in opposite directions and he draws it out for himself, not for the human's benefit. The lines are horizontal, the way the ocean seems to draw out from east to west, in alignment with the opal coal that burns hot life into everything its golden fingers caress; the curving lines, while touching the ends of the ones drawn horizontally, are pushing out instead of in, the arches still a part of them but the ends are pointing towards each other instead of away; for the ocean does pull in on itself but the tides also refuse to be silent, shove white bubbling froth and blue memories onto rocky shores, deadly soft but abrasive and comforting.

That is why, when a dragon combines the symbol for 'sky' and 'ocean' together, they create the symbol for 'life;' he often would tell himself how clever it was for his kind to embody different yet similar entities together to create something bigger, the horizontal and vertical lines crossing, the ends of the half circles connecting; that, while his kind may not always grasp everything life throws at them in pieces, as a whole, they can always make sense of the falls and rises, the harsh and beautiful tapestry that life is.

If only he could see, then, how this downward spiraling fall will eventually turn into a gusty gale and carry him back heavenward, aloft….

Hiccup stares in wonder at the mesmerizing lines created, glances at the beast in silence before prodding in a murmur, "What does that mean?"

The dragon cannot point to the ocean for it is not within sight, but he does his best when he looks at the sky then quickly averts his gaze down. Hiccup's face remains perplexed at the dragon is at a loss for how to show him what he means.

"I don't understand."

Instantly, the dragon thinks—the human will now learn his first word. He leans close to the boy, smells the faint scent of wood smoke, charcoal, and metal, even the lingering soft smell of roasted fish but his stomach does not growl with hunger, too intense as he stares at the boy. He hisses; Hiccup's eyes widen a margin and he almost backs away when he feels the firm touch of the tail behind his back, keeping him within distance: _Don't move._

When he remains rooted to the spot, the dragon hisses again, quiet, and it rises till it reaches the smooth peak, the highest note, where it falls quickly yet serenely, tumultuous and in tune with the earlier gentle crescendo; glancing at the symbol in the sand, the beast repeats the noise, and he prods the boy with the tip of his tail: _Copy._

Hiccup attempts and the dragon represses the urge to grimace, for the sound is alien from the boy, even though he knows how to hiss as well. After a few tries, the boy manages to mimic the rise and fall.

Hiccup is averting his gaze but he moves his eyes up, stares into gems encased in obsidian and asks in a murmur, "What does it mean?"

The dragon knows the boy will not be able to guess but he looks up at the sky and then downwards.

"It's from out there?"

The dragons nods, urges him to wonder; he glances up and then down, tilts his wings and, as he makes the hiss, pulls his appendages back then forward to copy the movements of tides.

"You've lost me."

When the beast gives him an incredulous deadpanned stare, Hiccup laughs; bristling, he pokes the human and the boy merely waves his hand, "Look, you can show me what it is when we leave."

The dragon stares at him, surprised, till he remembers the human's part of the deal. He had been wondering when the boy would allow him passage through those gates.

Hiccup stares at the symbols etched in sand, memorizing them, then smoothed them out, evidence erased; grabbing onto his contraption, he motions the dragon forward, "Let's go. A deal's a deal."

The beast is hit with a sudden wave of hesitation. Can he trust this boy? The invention does not look… secure. It's human made, flimsy, untrustworthy.

Hiccup worries about this as well, not just his invention, but how would he be able to bring the dragon back in, once it leaves? It may rebel, fight for the freedom it has craved since capture, or worse…

But he does not mull it over, sends a swift prayer, and turns back to the dragon. "Coming?"

As the gates rise, a flood of relief, homesickness and disbelief rush into the creature as he steps out of the ring and, though he knows it will be brief, out of his nightmare.


End file.
